coming undone
by i set my sims on fire
Summary: You are cold and bitter, the black sheep of the family - Albus Severus Potter, losing himself. Rated T for language and mature themes.


**Warning: strong language, as well as themes such as suicide, self-harm, and depression. Please do not read if you are a potential trigger.**

coming undone

_I'm trying to hold it together_

_Head is lighter than a feather_

_Looks like I'm not getting better_

**-coming undone, korn**

It starts with a bottle of pills, a stomach ache, and then nothing.

/

You open your eyes.

You decide in an instant that you do not like hospitals. They smell of disinfectant and everything is too white. You feel crushed down into the bed by stiff white sheets and the beeping of the machine linked to the tubes inside you are unnerving.

You shouldn't be here. That's all you can think about. Not just in the dingy hospital room, but in general. You shouldn't feel the rigid sheets pressing against your body. You shouldn't hear the footsteps and voices muffled in the hallway. You shouldn't be lying here, in this bed, full stop.

You must have failed. Fuck. You didn't count on that.

The day goes on. Faces blur into one. Words spill out of mouths, but you don't hear a word they say. Your parents enter the room, holding hands, tightly. Your mother has been crying. You sigh as they begin to speak. Their words seem to go in one ear, and out of the other. You'd like a glass of water.

Your mum starts crying again. You feel bad, crossing another reason on the list of why you shouldn't be hearing that irritating, repetitive beep, over and over again. You half want to say you're sorry, but you don't. Nobody brings you that glass of water. Your parents leave, tears still trickling down your mum's cheek, and your dad's arm draped comfortingly around her waist. You search for something in his eyes. There is definitely feeling locked inside his green irises- disappointment? Confusion? His lip quivers, almost, and you look away. You can't bear to see your parents like this.

You don't like talking to strangers. You were always told not to. Apparently, this is an exception, because doctors sit on the end of your bed and men with clipboards and muggle psychiatrists come to see you, to try and get inside your head. You're half thankful for the small fact that they are muggle. To them, you are just another patient, nobody special. Nobody knows who your father is. That's always a good start. You don't tell them much. What are they expecting to hear? You spill out a few words, accompanied by shrugs when they ask questions you don't feel like asking. The doctors tell you you're going to be okay, and your brow furrows. You have to sleep in the psychiatric ward over night. Your mother almost cries again, because you're going to live.

You sigh.

Lily and James come to visit you, the next day. They both look uneasy. They aren't sure how to act around you anymore. That much becomes obvious.

'How are you?' Lily asks awkwardly. You blink. How does she think you are?

'Fine,' you say.

James still doesn't say anything. He avoids looking at you. You know he's trying to figure things out, but he can't quite piece them together. James isn't good with things like that; why would he be? Your brother is the life of the party, loved by _everyone_, his warm brown eyes radiate happiness and fun, whereas yours are cold and green and bitter. You are worlds apart, and he'll never understand the feelings that haunt you, or the thoughts that run through your head. You kind of prefer it that way.

The three of you sit in an uncomfortable silence, until your parents come back into the room. Your mother's eyes are still red-rimmed. Nobody says much, until it's time for you all to go. Your mother wraps her arms around you, squeezing you tight, and your father does the same. Lily gives you an uneasy hug, murmuring 'I'm so happy you're still here' in your ear. You wince. You hate it when people tell you that kind of thing. They might be glad, but you're not. And the fake smiles they plaster onto their faces as they file out of the room tell you otherwise. You doubt they'd even care if you really were gone forever. Maybe they'd cry a bit, mourn for a few days, but then the sadness would fade. It always does. Lily would get a new boyfriend, James would graduate Hogwarts. Your cousins would achieve things you never could, your family would celebrate and slowly, the photos of you that decorate the peeling wallpaper and home would be taken down. You'd be nothing but a memory. They'd slowly forget the things that make you, well, you. You'd be written down in history as all the things you're not. They'd make you out to be happy, friendly. They'd forget the way your messy black hair falls over your glassy green eyes. They wouldn't remember trivial things, like the small mole on the back of your neck, or your favourite band, or the teachers you despised. Your love for Defence against the Dark Arts, and fascination with werewolves would be overlooked. They'd forget you, and how the press made you out to be the black sheep, they wouldn't recall your quiet nature or how you never quite fitted in. They'd forget you, every inch of you. You'd be nothing but a name and a dusty old photograph piled into a storage box.

The light outside dims into darkness, and you struggle to fall asleep.

/

You are discharged a few days later, and when you get home, things are different. There are no sharp objects in sight. There is a small padlock on a drawer where the knives are kept. It makes you wince. Your mother looks awkward, sending big smiles your way, and Lily and James retreat to their bedrooms. You find yourself plagued by unwanted visitors in your own room. They're checking up on you, you realise. Your father asking you what you want for dinner, Lily asking for your fourth year Potions notes. James asks if you've borrowed one of his shirts, your mother asking if you need to visit Diagon Alley before term starts. You begin to dread the knocking on the door, rolling your eyes and fighting the urge to tell them to fuck off. You've never had a lot of patience.

Dinner is awkward. Your mother attempts to make conversation. Your father shoots questions at you, regarding what NEWTs you're taking, though he already knows. Lily stirs her food around her plate, barely taking a mouthful. James drums his fingers against the wooden table. You stare at your feet. You don't remember things being this tense all of the time. Sure, you never spoke up all that much, but the table used to be full of your dad's work stories, James' bad jokes, Lily asking for things and your mum saying no. You don't understand why things should change now. You suppose it's all your fault, but you don't quite have the energy to care too much. You didn't ask for this, now, did you?

You eat a few mouthfuls. The food gets caught in your throat, and you have to try harder than you'd like to swallow it down. You excuse yourself from the table in a mumbled voice, because you don't think you can bare any more of this. Your father looks like he wants to protest, but nobody says anything. You stumble up the stairs, slam your door shut behind you, and bury yourself into your pillow. You have no energy, not even to turn on your CD player, or grab a book from the floor. You thought things were bad before. You seem to have made them worse.

Hours pass. The sky outside dims. You hear Lily and James bound up the stairs, hear the slamming of their doors reverberate through the thin walls. You creep into the hall, and crouch onto the top step of the stairs. You can vaguely hear the sound of your parents' voices downstairs carrying through the house. You wish you still had a pair of extendable ears, but make do without, anyway.

'…I don't know what to do with him, Ginny,' your father says. You wince. You hope, for a fraction of a second, that he's talking about James and his failing grades and dreams of playing Quidditch forever. You wipe the thought out of your head. You already know that he's not.

'He's so distant,' your dad continues. 'I don't know what to say to him.'

'The muggles suggested therapy,' your mother says, quietly. You're surprised you can even hear her. 'Or possibly even medication. Pills. That's how they deal with this sort of thing.'

You imagine your father holding his head in his hands, despairing. No light in those jaded green eyes. 'What other option do we have?'

'I suppose we'll have to give it a chance.'

There's a long, drawn-out silence.

'Do you think he'll try it again?'

'Please, Harry, don't talk about it. I don't even want to imagine-'

You tear your ears away from the banister. You're tired. You stand up, pad across the floor, back into the safety of your bedroom. You delve inside the depths of one drawer, pulling out old shirts and sweaters your grandma knitted you. Buried beneath it all should be a little black box. You find it, and sigh with relief. Inside of it, there should be a little steel blade; your security blanket. Except, it isn't there. Your heart races, they haven't-

They have. And your blood boils with fury. They've done something to your room, taken your things. You imagine your mother, leaving the hospital and returning to your home. You imagine her climbing the stairs, opening your bedroom door. You imagine her scouring the room, combing through your things, picking sweatshirts and CD cases and books off of the floor, searching through your bookshelf and emptying your drawers. Your eyes widen, and you race to your wardrobe. You kneel down, and look for a cardboard box hidden under hoodies and shoes. She's taken them, too. Your pills. She's taken your supply of pills, your blades, everything. She's confiscated everything you held close to you, all of your escape routes and coping mechanisms, even the pills you take to get a good nights sleep. She's taken it all. Everything that doesn't belong to her.

You tremble with anger. She must've known, she'd have seen the scars criss-crossing your forearms in the hospital, no matter how hard you tried to pull the sheets over them. Fuck.

You bury your head in your hands. You feel your blood boil with anger. Your mother had no right, she didn't- you accidentally find yourself pulling feathery tufts of soft black hair off of your head in pure fury.

You've always been a little impulsive, so you jump to your feet and fly out of your bedroom, on the verge of bursting into the kitchen and hurling abuse at your mother- but you stop half-way down the stairs at the sound of her voice. You realise she must be on the phone. She isn't talking to your dad.

'…Do you think it'd help him?'

Oh. She's talking about you. Again.

'Right, okay. Thank you. We'll be there.'

You're confused. You finish making your way down the stairs, jumping down them three at a time. Your mother and father both stand in the kitchen, your mother putting down the phone. His hand rests soothingly on her arm.

'Oh, Albus,' your mother says. A watery smile crosses her face. Your dad plasters a similar false grin on his own. 'We've booked an appointment for you.'

The string of angry words perched on your lips subsides.

'What?'

'The doctors,' your dad says firmly. 'They want to talk to you. They can help you get better.'

'I'm not sick,' you protest.

Your parents exchange a look.

'You need somebody to talk to,' your mum says. 'To help you cope.'

You glare at her. 'I have a way of coping.'

'A healthy way,' your dad says. You realise his voice is quivering. He's not good at this stuff, your dad. He may be Harry Potter, may be the Boy Who Lived. So what, he defeated the darkest wizard of all time, as well as overcoming the Triwizard Tournament, dragons, mer-people, werewolves, basilisks and giants. He's still hopeless when it comes to his family. You remember when Lily Luna was seven or so, and she got her first broom. She fell off and landed on her face. Your dad cried possibly more than she did. He's always terrified of you, James or Lily getting hurt, even though it's inevitable.

You imagine how he must be feeling. You care more than you'd like to admit. Anger, however, suppresses your guilt and you lash out, yet again.

'Fuck you,' you growl. Hurt crosses your mum's face, your dad looks crestfallen. You turn around, leaving them before they have a chance to make you feel worse because you're so angry right now, you need to- you can't, and you feel insane.

Lily is standing in the hall. She looks younger than usual, make-up wiped off with a towel and dressed in old pyjamas, red-hair falling over her shoulders. The look on your face makes something inside you ache.

'Al,' she's saying. 'Why are you doing this?'

You push past her, scaling the stairs before you slam your bedroom door and press yourself against it, locking them all out. Fuck. Your heart beat is erratic. You're bursting with anger, emotion, it's overwhelming and stuck inside of you. You need to get it out, you can't.

Fuck.

/

They send you to the doctor. You know you can't talk about magic, Hogwarts, or your father's fame in the wizarding world. Your parents tell you to open up, share your feelings without angering the ministry. You wonder how you're supposed to do this when they've restricted every area of your life. What are you supposed to talk about?

You don't say much. The doctor says a lot. He asks questions. You don't want to answer, so you settle with nodding or shaking your head and hiding behind your messy fringe. Fuck this.

After a while, your parents are called back into the room. They sit close together, holding hands tightly, and shooting you worried glances.

'Can you help him, then?' your mum asks, as if it's that simple.

'I'm afraid it isn't that easy, Mrs Potter,' the man says, and her face falls and you want to ask her if she gets it now. 'I'm afraid your son is very depressed.'

The doctor explains the situation. You won't talk. Your parents shoot you despairing looks. You want to disappear.

They start you on Prozac.

You tell your parents in the car ride home that you're starting school again soon; you don't want to be taking pills in school. People will talk. They ignore you. You sigh, and look out of the window, wondering if news of you has reached the wizarding world yet. You think of returning to Hogwarts, all eyes on you, and teachers being overly-sympathetic. It makes your skin crawl. You pray that nobody finds out, but they will- they always do, when you, James or Lily are involved. Nobody can get enough of you, it seems. Can't anyone see that it's driving you mad?

You close your eyes.

/

You are forced into a family reunion. You frown, but nobody listens to your protests. Your family have grown more and more impatient with you over passing weeks, and concern has faded into irritation.

The Burrow is full of people, too many people, and you have a headache. The pills were supposed to help you, but you skipped therapy sessions and the numbness didn't disappear from inside of you. You promise your mother you won't hurt yourself again. You cross your fingers behind your back. She doesn't believe you, anyway.

You go sit out back, wishing away the loud voices. Ron and Hermione look at you with pained expressions- you realise your parents have told you. You clench your fists, angrily. You wonder how many other pitiful eyes are going to be watching you. How many other people know things they've no right to know.

You wish everyone would leave you alone- that's what you've aimed for, from the very beginning. Why can't they understand that?

Rose comes to join you, sitting down beside you. Why is she here? She barely talks to you anymore. You used to be pretty close, but now? You've got nothing in common. She's a pretty Gryffindor with freckles and good grades, you're a Slytherin with antisocial tendencies and you have a habit of not caring about school, or the future, or organisation- all the things that dictate Rose's life.

'Hey, Al,' she says, and her voice is soft and when you look up, her blue eyes are sympathetic and fuck, she knows. You tell her hi and hug your knees and the long grass tickles your hands.

'How are you?' she asks.

'Fine,' why won't they leave you alone? You want to be left alone. They can't save you. Stop trying, please.

'Really?'

No. You're not fine. Why do they keep asking you? They know the answer. They don't have to ask, they can see from the heavy bags underlining your eyes, resulting from countless sleepless nights. They can see from the frown on your lips. They can see from the scars on your forearms that they know lurk beneath your sweatshirts. They can see how you are. Why do they ask?

'It doesn't even matter.'

'Of course it matters, Al-'

'Rose,' you say. And you sigh. 'You didn't care before. Why do you give a shit all of a sudden?'

She bites her lip. 'I heard-'

'That I tried to kill myself?'

'Al-'

'I'm over it. You should be, too.'

You stand up, leaving her there outside of the Burrow as little pellets of rain begin to fall from the dark grey sky. You go inside, lose yourself in a blur of faces and vivid red hair and Lily tugs on your sleeve.

'Please don't be like this, Al,' she whispers. 'Just try and be happy. Please?'

No one fucking gets it.

/

Slowly, everybody stops worrying, the pitiful eyes that follow you everywhere you go subside, and you're left alone. You steal a packet of razorblades from some muggle supermarket, tear out the blades, find a better hiding place, and soon, you're packing to go back to Hogwarts. You stop taking your pills, though your mother doesn't know this. She says she'll owl you your prescription every month and you don't say anything. You'll keep them, hide them in another small box and hope for the best. You board the Hogwarts express, clambering into a carriage alone. You didn't owl your friends this summer. You never responded to their letters. You wonder if they've forgotten you.

Apparently, they have. Except for Scorpius, who finds you and slips into your carriage and demands to know what the hell happened to you. You shrug. You wouldn't hesitate to bet your life savings that Rose has told him everything- it'd explain why he hugs you extra tight, and why he looks almost worried. Scorpius Malfoy is never worried. You attempt to keep up conversation, but it fades into nothing. You don't remember things being this awkward. In the Great Hall, you catch Rose shooting him a glance from the Gryffindor table. She's almost definitely told him, and you pray that he doesn't try to have a deep, meaningful conversation with you about it. Scorpius knows you best. Maybe he'll understand that you don't want to talk. You didn't want to talk when you first woke up in hospital, you didn't want to talk during the summer with Rose, and you don't want to talk now. You don't want to talk, ever.

You find your appetite still hasn't returned, and it takes more effort than you'd like to swallow down the delicious food piled on your table. You almost fall asleep through the sorting, and Scorpius nudges you when your eyes close during Professor McGonagall's welcoming speech.

'You alright, mate?' he whispers. You nod. You'd like to hope that your inability to keep your eyes open would indicate a good night's sleep. You'd like that. A lot. Except, you're not going to waste your time hoping for things that just won't happen, you know that it doesn't matter how tired you are- the demons in your head will still stop your mind from going to sleep.

You head up to your dorm after the feast. You lie down on your bed. It feels surreal, just being here. After fifth year finished, you didn't imagine coming back to Hogwarts again. You pictured it being all over. Except, that didn't quite work out- nothing quite works out when you're involved. Everything seems to be such a mess, and you don't really know how to get yourself out of this cycle.

The teachers know now, too. You know they do. The minute Hagrid catches sight of you, he wraps you in a huge, huge hug and doesn't let go until you're on the verge of collapsing. You swear there is a tear in his eye. You fucking hate this, all of this. They seem to think it was all a cry for help. They were wrong.

You don't want to be here anymore.

But you resume life as normal. You go to classes, you hang out with Scorpius, you freak out first years in the hall, just for the laughs. You don't sleep. You flush your meds down the toilets because you don't want to have to depend on pills to feel normal. You disappear for a while every few days. You self-harm. You fail your assignments, you don't write your essays, and you don't hand in your homework. You accidentally blow up a cauldron, and Professor Browning is a little bit less sympathetic after that. You don't talk to James. You embarrass Lily in front of a boy, and she smiles because you're acting a little like your old self. You avoid Rose. You get a detention from half of your teachers for said failing school work. You quit the Quidditch team and earn a frown from Scorpius. You avoid any sort of deep conversation he awkwardly tries to start with you. Your parents owl you, but you don't write back. You stop going to see Hagrid, you talk less, you feel eyes on you in the halls and you figure that word has spread. You avoid your cousins, you don't attend parties. You take to stealing bottles of firewhiskey and drinking alone in your dormitory, much to the disapproval of- well, everyone. You attend a meeting with Madam Pomfrey when your mother suspects you've stopped taking your pills. You assume someone has tipped her off. You're forced to start taking Prozac again, and it catches in your throat. You feel worse.

'What's going on with you, mate?' Scorpius asks, one day when you're walking from Care of Magical Creatures towards Potions. You sigh.

'Nothing,' you say, not even bothering to plaster a smile onto your face. You don't even have the energy to do that.

'Come on,' Scorpius prompts. 'There's obviously something up.'

'When did you get so sensitive?' you snap. 'I'm fine. I wish people would stop asking.'

'You're so down,' he argues. 'All the time.'

You shrug. 'I'm just tired.'

'Then why don't you sleep? I always hear you slipping out of the room at night.'

'I have trouble sleeping, that's all.'

Scorpius looks seriously doubtful. 'Everyone's worried, mate.'

'Everyone should stop listening to rumours. I know what people are saying, but Scorp, really, I'm all good.'

'Rose told me to keep an eye on you.'

'Tell her to piss off.'

'You tried to kill yourself!' Scorpius hisses. 'Excuse us for being a little concerned.'

You glare at him. Your eyes are slightly bloodshot. 'Where did you hear that? From Rose? Or from the gossips around school?'

'I know that it's true, Albus.'

You know he must be pretty pissed- he never calls you Albus anymore. He knows how much you despise your name. 'The greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had' and 'the bravest man I ever knew'. With your name comes expectations- shame you can't ever live up to them. You're not brave. You're a coward. You hate your name.

'I'm fine, Scorp. Just fucking leave it, will you?'

'I don't want you to die.'

'I'm not dead.'

Scorpius bites his lip. You almost find it in yourself to feel guilty.

'Please, Al, I'm worried about you.'

You feel uncomfortable. You and Scorpius don't talk like this. You're best mates, but you're not like this. You laugh and you take the piss out of anything and everything, and occasionally bitch relentlessly about your parents and teachers and how stupid people are. You're not used to deep and meaningful. You don't like it, either.

'Don't be,' you struggle. 'I'm fine, Scorpius.'

Except you're not, you're not.

/

Life goes on; James gets a girlfriend, then another, then another. He drinks a lot, throwing too many parties and failing too many classes. Lily gets a boyfriend, you and James contemplate threatening him, for your own amusement, talking normally together for the first time since your hospital visit. Lily hexes you both when you suggest it. Rose develops a crush on Scorpius. Scorpius doesn't like her back. You try to sympathise, but you don't really have the energy. You watch a Quidditch match from afar, when you should be on your boom. Teddy and Victoire get engaged, and Lily's face falls. Molly has a pregnancy scare. Louis comes out as gay. You and your problems are forgotten, and you're pretty happy with that.

You go home for Christmas. You get a jumper from your grandma. You feel as if everyone in your family is trying too hard with you. The awkwardness between you and James is still there. The Burrow is crowded and it makes your head hurt, again. Your mother bombards you with questions about how you're feeling. You tell her to fuck off. She starts crying. Lily glares at you. Nothing seems to be working, and you keep fucking up. Why isn't it working?

You remember to owl Scorpius over the holidays. You sit down with the rest of the family for dinner on Christmas day and you feel shit because everyone's talking and laughing, muggle paper hats in different coloured tissue paper sit on everyone's heads, but you can't muster so much as a smile. You remember five or six years ago, before this shit storm started, sitting at this same table with these same people, but you were laughing, too, joining in with the fun because you were ten or so, and you hadn't yet disappointed the entirety of the family by being sorted into Slytherin and making friends with a Malfoy. The media hadn't swallowed you whole yet, the way they are now with their curiosity and fascination with the Potter kids that causes you so much pain. You remember when they first started hounding you, headlines on every magazine about how the youngest Potter boy had taken the dark path and how the members of your house glared at you for the badmouthing they got, except for Scorpius who grinned at you. You were only eleven and they'd already begun tearing you into shreds. You remember the family reunions back then; you were excited to see your cousins instead of dreading too many people. Christmas was fun; you were bright and happy, everyone loved you. You didn't slice your skin or collect pills and you weren't a disappointment.

Now, you are cold and bitter, the black sheep of the family.

You find yourself unable to eat most of your dinner, even though its Grandma Molly's cooking and its great- but it sticks in your throat, along with a lump of guilt and bitterness, and you don't feel so hungry. You stir your food aimlessly around your plate with a fork. You feel your mother's gaze on you, you don't look up.

You feel kind of awful. Even amongst a sea of family and cousins and friendly faces, you feel alone. You always feel alone; even when people are crowding you and questioning you and smothering you with hugs and love and worry. You feel alone, almost trapped inside your mind where nobody can help you. Nobody can save you from your own head, your own madness.  
You toy with the idea that you may or may not be going insane. It doesn't seem particularly unlikely.

/

You've had enough.

You go back to school. You fail more classes, disappoint more people. Nothing is going right, and you don't understand why. You try, sometimes, but for the most part you've given up. You feel yourself heading to a familiar place, familiar thoughts are suffocating you. You don't like it, but you don't try to fight it. You're not brave like everyone else, maybe you can't cope. Maybe you were never meant to. You consider yourself a mistake- you don't quite fit in with the Weasley-Potter's, and the bright happy family atmosphere. Everyone has problems, but yours weigh you down, isolating you from everything. You can't shrug things off like James can. They tie you down. You can't seem to escape.

Everything is building up- detentions, homework, letters from home, medications, disappointments. And you are the biggest disappointment of all.

You struggle to get by each day. You don't want to get out of bed, you want to stay buried beneath your bedsheets, but Scorpius pulls you out each morning.

Gryffindor beat Slytherin at Quidditch. James hosts a party, cheats on his girlfriend. Lily ditches Sean Finnigan for Lorcan Scamander. Molly's still disappearing into broom closets with guys she barely knows, as if to prove a point. Louis starts dating a guy. Scorpius asks out Rose, and she is ecstatically happy. Eventually, they both leave you alone, stop bothering with you. Essentially, everyone has already given up on you. You give up on yourself.

It's February; you attempted suicide in July. You wanted to die. Even after eight months, a feeling like that doesn't just go away. It never goes away.

You've hit rock bottom, once again. You've given up on trying to get better- it was all for nothing anyway. You dig out your bottle of pills. You swallow them down one after another with a bottle of firewhiskey. And-

Fuck.

**A/N; So, um, I'm sorry. I have no idea what this is, or if it even makes sense, and I know nothing gets resolved and it's all sad endings and stuff and ah sorry :c if you liked this even a little bit, I'd be flattered if you left a review!**


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